


Today's Scrambled Creatures

by misanthropiclycanthrope



Series: Someone To Claim Us [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, M/M, There's sex this time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-06
Updated: 2014-02-06
Packaged: 2018-01-11 10:25:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1171942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope/pseuds/misanthropiclycanthrope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Come morning, there’s an even more unexpected twist in Greg’s shifting relationship with Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Today's Scrambled Creatures

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be the smut to balance out the fluff of _Tomorrow’s Never There_ , but it turned out just as fluffy…
> 
> Read [_Tomorrow’s Never There_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1149755) first for some context, or don’t for a dose of (fluffy) PWP.

Greg awoke to a feeling of rested contentment and the sensation of fingertips lightly tracing idle patterns across his chest. As the last cloudy vestiges of sleep cleared from his mind, he recalled whom those fingers belonged to and rolled his head on the pillow to look at the dark curls atop the head resting beside his shoulder as if he needed visual confirmation that Sherlock hadn’t fled.

When Sherlock realised Greg was no longer asleep his fingers stilled, but didn’t move away.

“Mornin’.” Greg’s voice was still thick with sleep, and he spoke softly so as not to spook the younger man; this behaviour was more than a little peculiar where the usually reserved consulting detective was concerned.

“Good morning, Gavin.”

“Ha bloody ha.” Despite Sherlock’s almost certainly deliberate error, there was a smile on Greg’s face. Sherlock couldn’t be suffering any regrets if he was being his normal, infuriating self, and his mood had clearly improved from the dull melancholy of the night before – the despondency that had led him to seek comfort from Greg.

After a moment, the fingers recommenced their activity, traversing the expanse of Greg’s chest then changing direction and skimming down over his stomach until they reached the hem of his t-shirt and found the bare skin of his abdomen where the shirt had ridden up a little. Muscles twitched reflexively at the unexpected touch and Greg bit back a gasp at the resultant shock of pleasure that jolted through him. Christ, didn’t Sherlock realise what he was doing?

“What time is it?” Greg asked, aiming for nonchalance and failing when his voice came out unnaturally hoarse. Sherlock made no response so Greg stretched out an arm and lifted his phone from the bedside table, squinting at the screen. “I have to go to work.”

“Not yet.”

“I have to finish those reports you prevented me completing last night.”

“Not yet.” This time the words were a little more adamant and combined with further movement of those increasingly maddening fingers. When they reached the waistband of his pyjama trousers, Greg halted their progress by grasping them and holding them still.

“Sherlock…”

Sherlock finally stirred and raised his head to look up at Greg, his blue eyes full of their customary curiosity. “Do you want me to stop?”

Greg swallowed; he knew his willpower had been worn down the previous night, leaving his emotions open and vulnerable when it came to Sherlock. “No,” he admitted; there was no point hiding the truth when Sherlock was staring at him so intently. “But are you sure you want…?”

“I never do anything I don’t want to do.”

That much was true; Greg couldn’t disagree. Attempting to convince Sherlock to take part in any activity he deemed boring or pointless was an exercise in futility best avoided if you wanted to retain your sanity. What Greg couldn’t understand was what had prompted this – Sherlock had never shown any interest in him before beyond his pursuit of solace last night. “But…me?”

“Why not you?” Sherlock sounded genuinely intrigued by Greg’s scepticism. “You’re not unattractive.”

Greg wasn’t sure whether that was much of a compliment coming from Sherlock, who rarely seemed to rate anybody on their physical attractiveness. Perhaps he was just saying what was expected, what he thought Greg needed to hear as a way of convincing him he was utterly serious in his decision.

“Thanks. I think.” He searched Sherlock’s gaze, but saw no indication that the man was teasing him. It was probably the closest thing to an admission of attraction that he was ever likely to get from Sherlock. “Seriously, Sherlock, you’ve never even hinted that you want…this.” Or _any_ kind of emotional or sexual relationship for that matter.

Sherlock broke eye contact, glancing around the room, suddenly uncomfortable with having to examine his own intangible, illogical emotions. “I don’t like feelings.” He said the word with a measure of distaste. “They’re…messy. Cloud the intellect. But you…” He finally met Greg’s gaze again. “You make the thoughts go quiet.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“Yes. Sometimes. I…need that.” He paused, descending for a moment into one of his contemplative silences that Greg didn’t dare interrupt. He wouldn’t have had any idea what to say even had he wanted to speak; this kind of disclosure was so remarkable he didn’t know how to respond. What he really wanted to do was pull Sherlock into a hug, but he didn’t know how that would be received. Instead, he rubbed a slow circle on Sherlock’s wrist with his thumb. Greg was well acquainted with the methods Sherlock usually employed to achieve that desired oblivion, and if he could provide an alternative…he found he was perfectly happy to do so.

Sherlock absorbed Greg’s touch, unblinking, then the corner of his mouth twitched. “It only works when you’re not being an insufferable idiot.”

“Oi!” Pretending to be more affronted than he actually was, Greg released Sherlock’s hand and glowered.

“You have to admit that you often –”

“Quit while you’re ahead, Sherlock.”

As if to atone, Sherlock’s hand slid lower, brushing across the front of Greg’s pyjama trousers, the fabric of which suddenly too thin and yet not thin enough. Greg gave an involuntary jerk as the light touch sent a shock through him.

“I don’t believe you’re really annoyed with me,” Sherlock stated shrewdly, a hint of impish teasing behind the deadpan delivery of his words.

“I am.” Greg’s assertion, and his attempt to sound pissed off, was ruined by the ragged quality his voice had taken on.

“In fact, it seems you quite enjoy my company.”

“When you’re not being an insufferable smart-arse.”

Sherlock gave him a squeeze and the resultant shock had Greg sucking air through his teeth, rapidly losing his ability to think coherent thoughts. “Fuck…”

“Do you want to keep insulting me, or shall I continue?” Sherlock made it sound as if he didn’t care either way, which was incredibly infuriating.

“You started it,” Greg pointed out, perfectly reasonably. Sherlock’s response was to lift his hand away. “Ngh…continue.”

A brief, victorious grin flashed on Sherlock’s face, then, in a sudden flurry of energy, he sat up, flinging the covers aside and settling on his knees beside Greg’s hip. He would have looked almost comical – wearing as he was a t-shirt of Greg’s that was far too baggy on his slender frame – had it not been for the look of intense concentration on his face and the way his tongue darted out to wet his lips. There was a light dancing behind those quicksilver eyes that it thrilled Greg to see. Usually, it was only ever evident when Sherlock was confronted with a particularly puzzling case, but at that moment it was directly solely at him and said more about Sherlock’s feelings than the man would ever express in words.

It was something Greg had never thought he would witness and he knew better than to question it any further.

Just when Greg was beginning to think Sherlock was going to content himself with sitting there staring at him for the rest of the day, the detective swung a leg over his body, straddling him with a knee either side of his hips. His arse was just low enough to make Greg think he was still being teased. Just to be contrary, he chose not to react.

Sherlock’s fingers were back at the hem of his t-shirt, pushing it up even further. Greg raised his shoulders so Sherlock could tug the garment over his head and summarily discard it over the side of the bed. Greg fleetingly wished he were a little younger and fitter, but such trivialities seemed to make no difference to Sherlock; those long fingers began to retrace their earlier route, this time with no barrier between them and Greg’s skin. Heat was slowly seeping into Greg’s veins, electricity thrumming just beneath the surface.

Greg could tell that Sherlock was appraising every piece of information, every one of Greg’s reactions, and filing it all away in that mind palace of his. It was flattering, in a way, to be the subject of such acute scrutiny, and he was willing to allow Sherlock all the time he needed to satisfy his ever-present curiosity.

The exploring hands eventually stopped, splayed on Greg’s broad chest. Using them for support, Sherlock bent forward and pressed his lips to Greg’s in a tentative kiss. It was gentle, almost chaste, until Greg recovered from his surprise and craned his neck forward, pressing up into the kiss and encouraging Sherlock’s lips to part so his tongue could gain entry, tasting. Sherlock made a small sound in the back of his throat, and then he was matching Greg’s ferocity with equal fervour.

Greg’s hands clutched at Sherlock’s sides, holding the younger man in place until the need for oxygen became impossible to ignore any longer and they parted. Sherlock sat back again, chest heaving and face flushed. Greg grinned at the sight, knowing he was the cause.

His fingers, still at Sherlock’s waist, found their way under the t-shirt and finally skimmed across bare skin. He ran his hands upwards, shoving the shirt out of his way as he went until Sherlock obediently raised his arms and pulled it off, then watched as Greg copied his own actions, using touch to explore this newly revealed territory.

Greg stroked his thumbs over Sherlock’s nipples, then glided them down his ribcage and brushed over his sides and back to his waist, feeling muscles quiver at the feather-light touch. He only stopped when he caught Sherlock frowning.

“What?”

“I’m afraid I’m not much to look at.”

Greg’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you kidding? You’re bloody gorgeous!” Sherlock was, admittedly, a little too skinny, but Greg could find no other faults. Sherlock, however, looked unconvinced – he was being completely sincere, stating the facts as he saw them. “Don’t do that,” Greg scolded.

“What?”

“Put yourself down like that.”

“My mind had always been far superior to my body.” Said with pragmatic conviction.

“If you’re giving me the choice, I’d rather shag your body.”

Sherlock snorted in amusement at that. Somehow, it seemed to do the trick; a small smile broke through his regretful expression and he was on the move again, making his way backwards down the bed, drawing Greg’s pyjama trousers with him as he went. Greg raised his hips, then his ankles from the mattress to assist with their removal, leaving him completely naked. A brief pause, then Sherlock’s hands recommenced their exploration, this time beginning at his feet and slowly making their way up his legs. Greg let his head drop back onto the pillow and his eyes drifted shut as he focused solely on the small points of contact that left a trail of burning nerves in their wake, Sherlock slowly and surely driving Greg crazy with want.

The touch ghosted along the insides of his thighs, then disappeared. A whine of protest began in Greg’s throat, only to become a strangled gasp as, without warning, Sherlock licked a wet stripe up the underside of his cock.

“Fuck!”

Immediately the expletive had left his lips, the head of his cock was engulfed by wet heat. He would have sworn again had he not been momentarily rendered incapable of speech.

One hand grasped his balls, the other took hold of the base of his cock as that deft tongue did obscenely maddening things to the tip. Greg made the mistake of looking down along the length of his body just as Sherlock flattened his tongue and took Greg further into his mouth.

“Jesus fuck.” The words stuttered out automatically, with no conscious input from his brain which was registering nothing but the sight of Sherlock with his lips clamped around his cock, his mop of dark curls falling into his eyes as he lifted his gaze to meet Greg’s…

Breath caught in his throat, his stomach twisted, and Greg had to snap his eyes shut again or risk coming there and then; it took every ounce of self-restraint not to thrust up into that hot mouth. Sensing his struggle to retain control of himself, Sherlock released him to equal parts relief and dismay. Feeling the mattress dip as Sherlock moved, Greg chanced peeking again, just in time to see the younger man resettle himself over his crotch. At some point he had also removed his own trousers and was now just as naked as Greg, and just as hard.

Biting his lip, Greg placed his hands on Sherlock’s slender thighs, running them upwards and feeling them tense in response. Sherlock was watching him, usually pale eyes blown dark with desire. The look on his face would have been enough to leave the Yarder breathless even without the way Sherlock was rubbing Greg’s cock against the crack of his arse. He swallowed hard.

“Sherlock…you don’t have to…”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, wordlessly reasserting what he had earlier told Greg: _I never do anything I don’t want to do_.

“Okay.” Greg didn’t take much convincing. “Hang on.” He twisted awkwardly, reaching out to tug open the drawer of the bedside table, and groped in its cluttered depths until he found the lube he was searching for. Sinking back, he offered it to Sherlock who quickly and efficiently began slicking Greg’s cock. It crossed Greg’s mind that he should continue rummaging for a condom, but the look of intent on Sherlock’s face told him it would probably be a futile gesture.

Satisfied, Sherlock held the lube out for Greg. “Would you like to…?”

Without the slightest hesitation, Greg took the lube and thoroughly coated his fingers. Sherlock raised himself up on his knees a little, giving Greg the space to slide his hand between his legs. First, Greg cupped his balls and squeezed, mimicking what Sherlock had done to him moments ago, then pressed a finger up behind his scrotum and stroked along his perineum. He was rewarded with a soft moan that made his own cock throb in sympathy.

Slowly, he ran his fingers back even further and paused for just a second before pushing one inside. The gasp that escaped Sherlock at the intrusion was a combination of pleasure and pain, and Greg held still, giving him time to adjust. Sherlock’s eyes were closed and he was chewing on his lower lip, concentrating on regulating his breathing and relaxing his body. When Greg felt the pressure of the muscles surrounding his finger lessen, he continued to push until he reached the knuckle.

His gaze hadn’t left Sherlock’s face and now those intelligent eyes were open and silently pleading for more. Greg complied, adding another finger and curling them until he found the spot he was searching for and Sherlock’s entire body shuddered with the sudden explosion of pleasure. He writhed on Greg’s fingers for a while, seeking more, before abruptly ceasing all movement.

“I think that should be sufficient.” His voice was remarkably steady, and held a note of impatience that almost made Greg laugh. How Sherlock managed to retain his composure, the policeman couldn’t guess, but it was just like Sherlock to grow restless with tedious preparation.

Greg acquiesced without protest, gently withdrawing his fingers and wiping them absently on the bedsheet as Sherlock repositioned himself and reached down to take hold of Greg’s cock and hold it in place as he lowered himself onto it.

“Christ…” Greg breathed as Sherlock sank down and he was gradually engulfed by tight heat. His hands found Sherlock’s thighs again, clutching at them with a vice-like grip that would undoubtedly leave bruises. Sherlock barely seemed to notice, much less care; he started to move, lifting himself half-way off Greg’s cock before slamming back down again.

For several minutes, Greg lost all touch with reality. The world could have ended around him and he wouldn’t have noticed, nor given a shit, as long as Sherlock kept riding him like that. Sherlock threw his head back, the cords in his neck standing out, every wiry muscle taut beneath glistening skin. Greg couldn’t look away.

Greg prised his fingers from their grip and swept his hand up Sherlock’s thigh, over his hip and across his stomach, finally bringing it back down and wrapping strong, blunt fingers around his cock. As he brushed the pad of his thumb over the leaking tip, Sherlock made a low humming noise that Greg could have sworn he felt rather than heard. He teased Sherlock for a while, alternating light touches with rougher squeezes as he caressed the man’s length, and it wasn’t long before the hum became a growl; Sherlock bared his teeth in a snarl born of an instinctive need that required no cognitive thought or reasoning.

Fisting Sherlock’s cock now in time with the detective’s own rhythm, Greg coaxed him closer to the edge, willing him to give himself over to desire and watching him come apart so completely. Sherlock canted his hips, finding a different angle, and his body suddenly convulsed as he spilled himself over Greg’s chest and stomach.

Muscles clenched around Greg’s cock and he could hold himself still no longer. Drawing his knees up, he planted his feet on the mattress for leverage and thrust upwards, ramming deep into Sherlock. The younger man grunted in surprise but pushed back. Thus encouraged, Greg’s hands gripped Sherlock’s hips, holding him steady as he thrust again, pounding into him now without restraint.

It didn’t take long; Greg came with an inarticulate cry, buried inside Sherlock, filling him, feeling each pulse of euphoria in every nerve of his body and in the very fibre of his being.

Then his muscles finally gave out on him and he sank back onto the mattress, spent. Sherlock carefully eased from him and stretched out alongside the length of his body. Propped on one elbow, he idly brushed his fingers through Greg’s silver hair as he waited for the policeman to regain his senses. For his part, Greg would have been perfectly happy to remain suspended in that moment for the rest of eternity. God forbid Sherlock should let him enjoy a few hazy seconds of insult-free contentedness, however.

“You’re vocabulary becomes somewhat limited during sex,” the detective informed him, perfectly seriously.

“That’s your fault,” Greg grumbled. “You expect me to remain articulate when you’re doing… _that_?”

“I suppose I can’t expect you –”

“You’re about to insult me again, aren’t you?”

“An astounding deduction, Lestrade.”

“Piss off.” The words carried no heat, however, and there was an affectionate smile on Greg’s face as he brushed damp curls from Sherlock’s forehead. Sherlock turned his head, pressed a quick kiss to Greg’s palm, and rolled gracefully out of the bed.

“Hey!” Greg protested. “Where’re you going?”

“You have to go to work.” Sherlock began gathering his clothing, effectively ruining the moment.

Sighing deeply, Greg scrubbed a hand over his face, then ran it through his hair. “How am I supposed to concentrate on sodding budget requests now?”

Sherlock frowned down at him sternly. Greg didn’t believe his responsible act for a moment, or perhaps he just felt too boneless to move, much less face work. “Get up, Gregory. It makes no difference to me if you stay in bed all day, but you’ll only be mad with me later if you don’t get your paperwork finished. What?”

Greg was grinning up at him; the puzzled crease between Sherlock’s brows as the detective tried to ascertain the reason for his amusement only caused his smile to grow wider. “So you _do_ know my name,” he proclaimed with undisguised triumph.

Decidedly unimpressed with this revelation, Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Of course I do. I’m a genius.”

Undeterred by the flippant nature of Sherlock’s retort, Greg swung his legs and was standing before Sherlock in the space of a heartbeat, taking his face in his hands and kissing him, long and hard. Sherlock seemed taken aback for a second, but then his hands found Greg’s back, their touch strangely timid considering what had just happened between them.

Greg’s initial fervour softened into something deeper; through that meeting of lips he wordlessly expressed everything he wanted to tell the younger man – the promise never to leave him and to be whatever Sherlock needed him to be.

Whether or not Sherlock received that message, Greg couldn’t tell, but the long-fingered hands on his back clutched a little tighter before Sherlock pulled back from the kiss and looked into Greg’s eyes with his piercing blue gaze.

“Thank you.” It was spoken in a whisper, barely audible, but it was more than Greg had expected and meant that Sherlock _had_ understood – more than that, it meant he had also accepted this new dynamic.

Then, “You’re going to be late.”

Well, that certainly broke the spell. “I don’t care.”

“Yes. You do.” Without warning, Sherlock sank into a crouch, putting his head on a level with Greg’s groin and triggering a vivid flashback: Sherlock taking him into his mouth, that mess of curls bobbing…despite himself, Greg felt the first stirrings of arousal, even though he had no hope of getting it up again so soon.

Sherlock rose back to his full height with something in his hand and unceremoniously thrust Greg’s t-shirt at the Yarder’s chest. “I suggest you get dressed, Lestrade.”

Automatically taking the shirt, Greg could only stare mutely at Sherlock as his brain struggled to drag itself northward again.

“Bastard.”

Sherlock crooked his fingers under Greg’s gaping jaw and swiped his thumb across his lower lip. He flashed a wicked grin of affirmation and then was gone, leaving Greg standing in the centre of his bedroom with a not unwelcome fluttering in his stomach and an affectionate smile curling his lips.

This was something far more than merely a mutually beneficial arrangement.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from David Bowie’s ‘We Are The Dead’, and to complete the _Diamond Dogs_ theme, the title of the Series is from ‘Big Brother’.


End file.
